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Antoine de Saint Exupery says in his book, “The Little Prince”, that “you cannot see clearly except with your heart,” and I would take this further and dare to say even that “you cannot live well except with your heart,” at least for me. And I know precisely, there are those moments when my heart would beat out of my chest and would fly up, it would travel the whole world with its beauties and would embrace them. So that later, it can find rest with gratitude at the feet of a warm icon. In those moments, I would want to live not in the body, but in the heart, to be all heart… And there are also other moments, when more than anything, I become one heart with the others. Then I have this feeling that all our hearts have a corner that is linked to the others, through the finest and most delicate ribbon, God’s love.

I close my eyes and descend there, in my heart, to one of my dearest memories when I bore my heart on the outside. And it was visible, surely it was visible, not red and uniform like in paintings, but in tears, smiles, and shining eyes.

I decided to spend my 23rd birthday in the left corner of my chest. I remember even saying: “this year I want to celebrate in a place dear to my soul.” And where I feel truly at home, the home of my heart. And of course, the choice wasn’t difficult: Putna Monastery.

So, in the first day of spring, I started my journey to the holy settlement. My heart was living in unison with the beginning of the season. March was fighting with winter, I with an amalgam of feelings. There was joy, there was also uncertainty, because I had never stayed more than a day at the monastery, and even less so had I ever celebrated my birthday in such a place. There was soul, there was also body. But the long journey to Putna was also like that, impossible to travel without my heart, without all my heart.

It was the beginning of Great Lent. It was dark when I arrived. Silence in every corner of the monastery. As if all the hum of daily life had retreated somewhere, hidden, tired. I would find out where later. Although I had come with great yearning, in front of this scene different than my daily experience, my soul was weighed down. It was too quiet, I could hear my pains, there was too much lack of material things which I knew to use so skillfully to cover certain deficiencies and certainly, joy could no longer be found in external things. My birthday would be in a few days, but I felt so weak, so overwhelmed, that I wondered if I would endure. Being the beginning of Great Lent, the services were longer, the asceticism more severe, the cold still prevalent. I felt like my heart was a battlefield. On the one hand, the distinct life here which overwhelmed me, and on the other hand, that intuition of true joy.

And so, my heart retreated, my chest became small again, life again delicate. Only from time to time, during the services, it made itself felt again. And confronted by the exhaustion which encompassed me so powerfully, it remained firm, as if imploring me to stay. It showed me with its pointer finger, like children do when they see something that they like, trying to reveal to me the beauty I was partaking of. With each prayer, my heart was lifted up; each time my eyes looked Upwards, it understood; with each bending of the knee, it became more peaceful. A new world was taking form before her eyes. I began to understand what the silence of the monastery was concealing. The entire world was contained in each knot on the prayer rope and was reborn through prayer. And my heart was more and more on the outside. It poured itself out on my cheeks, it was singing with power in the chanting, it was giving thanks constantly and became in some moments as light as a snowflake. I didn’t know too many people there, I hadn’t been too often, but there was a wonderful communion, which I would not be able to explain. Some piece of each person’s heart existed in the others’ hearts. I didn’t have all my family next to me, but I felt love; I didn’t have shining things, but I saw light; and maybe most importantly, I didn’t have joy, but I was joy.

These few days passed with this unforced effort of my heart to become, at least for a little bit, the house of my body. And it was as if I was encouraging it, whispering slowly and often the verses of Aurei Christi: “Lift up your body,/take it in your arms – lightly,/slowly, like an infant.” Slowly, all the lack of comfort, all the difficulty that threatened me at the beginning, became the occasion for it to make more and more room for itself on the outside. To live as it was created and for what it was created…free, in the good freedom.

That birthday was a gift…my heart was victorious! It found its path through clay and came to the surface. And wow, how it was seen! I didn’t have a party, nor any of the things without which I thought it wasn’t possible to feel celebrated, yet I received steadfast gifts. First of all, the people…because I felt so much love then that I was convinced yet again of what a great blessing we can be for one another. And the, the joy of simplicity. My heart abandoned, even if for a short time, the modern, sparkling things and it lived the peace of a shirt made of melted linen, like that of our ancestors. It remained at peace at the gate of my body, with my hands silently joined together and it wasn’t yelling, it wasn’t speaking loudly, but only kept silent and smiled warmly, so warmly, that for a moment I remembered the icon of our shy but courageous grandparents.

That’s how I bore my heart in those days, on the outside, through the understanding that it gained. The difficulty of those few days was fully worthwhile. Without it, I’m not sure I could understand the sense of effort, the joy of simplicity, and the great blessing of the ribbon with which the heavenly Father links our hearts: love. Today, I strongly believe that you can only believe when you live more with your heart, at least for me! May the Lord provide more and more of such days!

Mihaela